


Cold Contagious

by micehell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, M/M, not a happy story even beyond the rape issue, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-13
Updated: 2008-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It never stops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Contagious

**Author's Note:**

> Another NNNoN story. And, yes, the title's from a Bush song again, but this time at least it has something to do with the story. ;)

Bound. Helpless. Hopeless.

It comes for him, digging into flesh already raw and red from the chains, pushing in past whatever fight he has left.

It's always the same.

_Taller, broader, stronger. Dwarfing him, tearing him open._

His hips involuntarily grind at the movement. He didn't want this, doesn't want it.

_Blood. Pain. Screaming._

"Stop it! Fucking Hell, stop it!"

But it never stops.

The pleasure never stops.

::::::::::

Dean starts up out of the dream, "Stop it!" dying on his lips. He looks wildly around, terrified he'll see her standing over him, smiling at the gift she gave him, but it's just Sam. Sam and his bottle of whiskey, both within reach. Dean makes sure he only touches the one.

"It's the same dream, Dean. Every night."

It's a statement, not a question, but Dean's too tired to ask how he knows.

Sam answers him anyway. "I don't know how I can tell. I just... can."

He's wearing the concerned face, the one that makes Dean want to hit him. The one that warms Dean like a security blanket when things get too rough. Reacting to either feeling is just going to get Sam hurt, though, so Dean ignores it, ignores the whole conversation.

But Sam isn't letting it die, not even after the talk. "I know you said you're not talking about Hell, but... at least talk about this dream. It's the same one, over and over, and... Dean, it's..." He trails off, frustrated, hands jerking as if he'd sign what he means if he only knew how.

Dean knows what he means without it. He's seen himself in the mirror. Knows that his breath smells more like Scotch than Scope lately. But he can't talk to Sam about the dream. Not this one.

So Sam talks to him instead. "I see... when you're dreaming..." He's embarrassed, but he's Sam, so he's determined to go through with this regardless of the blush that's staining what appears to be his entire body. Dean would find it funny if he weren't dreading what was coming.

"I see your hips jerking... and... well, it's a distinctive smell, Dean. But you're shouting, too... and." He hesitates again, face screwing up with a mixture of pain and determination. "Were you raped? Is that what it is?"

But Sam's braver than Dean, because he. Is. Not. Talking. About. This.

Ever.

Not to Sam.

But Sam's never known how to read the signs, never known when silence was the best medicine.

"Dean. I know it's bad, but... if you talked about it, maybe it wouldn't seem quite so overwhelming. None of this is something you did, it's something that happened to you. And it, all of it, had to have been... and I get that you think I don't understand, because I don't. But this... maybe I could."

Sam's trying to be helpful, but that, even the idea that he understands, is just making it worse. Dean's held on as long as he has by a strong case of denial, and a good dose of whiskey when it gets too bad, but if it weren't just in his head... if it wasn't just something Lilith had done to him...

He doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know, but it's Sam, it's _Sammy_ , and he has to. "You'd understand because... Sam?"

He himself understands now, how difficult a question it is to ask, but if he's channeling Sam's hesitation, Sam's channeling his silence.

It doesn't matter, though, because Dean already knew. He's known from the start. He'd just wanted to believe he didn't. It's all Dean can do not to just lie down right there and cry. All he can do not to wish for death, because he knows there are things worse than that. Not that he hasn't always known that, intellectually, but now he can bear witness. And he does, every night, endlessly playing behind his eyes.

He manages to grit out, "Nothing happened, Sam. Nothing happened," because denial is all either of them have any more, and this is just another lie between them. Another truth it was easier not to know.

Dean makes sure there's nothing on his face, nothing in his body language, until he gets the door of the bathroom closed behind him. Then it doesn't matter if he shakes, and cries, and screams without making a noise. And he does, because it had been real, the 'vision' Lilith had placed in his head, had pressed into his body. All of it had been real: the thought, the feelings, the 'God why didn't you damn me' pleasure he'd shared with the man who'd raped his brother.

When it had happened, that first time -- that _real_ time -- part of him had been happy, truly happy, at the thought it might be true. It would have meant that Sam was alive, and alive and in pain was better than dead any day. Wasn't it?

But it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't ever stop, the pleasure that he didn't want, the _excitement_ he felt as he thrust into his brother's ass, so tight, so tight. The first scream, the stifled whimpers, the useless fight -- like Dean's, just like Dean's -- all thrumming in his veins.

After that first time, Dean had found comfort in the pain of thinking Sam dead.

Sam's not dead, though, and even while Dean revels in that, offers thanks to a God he's still not sure he believes in, and is definitely not sure he likes, it's killing him as well. He bites his hand, holding back the screams, the stifled whimpers, the useless fight, because it's pointless. He's chained. Helpless. Hopeless.

But he'd learned to live without hope a lifetime ago, and there's only so long he can stay in there before Sammy comes knocking, that half-hated concern on his face. So Dean washes as much of it away as he can, putting back on his game face before he leaves his sanctuary.

Those eyes are on him even before he's through the doorway, full of fear, pain, memories, and God help them all, love. Dean aches to hold him, to hug him tight and tell him everything's going to be okay, but he can't touch Sam right now. He can't.

But he'll make it be okay eventually. He'll _make_ it be, no matter what.

"It's just dreams, Sammy. All in the past. Let it go."

He ignores the small part in his head, the one that had wanted Sam alive at any cost, that tells him he should do the same, but he knows he can't. He can't ever let it go.

Because the dreams aren't always in the past, and the pleasure's never stopped.

/story


End file.
